


Sleeping Dogs

by montecarlos



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Guns, M/M, Mafia AU, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:45:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is tough, love is tougher.</p><p>Pascal is to inherit his fathers extensive empire, but there's something - or rather someone standing in his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> For Emma who is a slut for mafia aus and for listening to me whine on and on about the race today. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Pascal was always going to go into the family business. He knew how to unload and reload his father’s gold-plated Benelli pistol, 19mm cartridges - he remembers them like other children remember their Legos. His fathers were barely around, always both dressed in sharp navy and black suits - they never had time to sit down and play with him. He often wondered why they even bothered to have a child but it became abundantly clear at his sixteenth birthday party. It was lavish, balloons tied everywhere, waiters walking around with flutes of champagne, a beautiful cake, his present was a dark purple custom made Ferrari with tinted bulletproof windows. Pascal had glanced at the car, his father’s hand like lead glued to his shoulder.    
  
“You deserve the best,” His father had smiled, glancing at his papa across the room. They both share a glance of such intensity. Pascal wonders if he’ll ever love anyone as much as his father loves his papa. Pascal hates them both in that moment - he wonders if his life could have been different, if they had loved him as much as they loved each other. He knows his destiny; they don’t have to say it out loud to him. He’s being groomed to take over the business - to take over the family business. They want him to run their business empire one day.    
  


* * *

  
He glances at himself in the mirror, smoothes his shaking hands over his sharp suit. He’s going to help his fathers conduct a “business deal” today, he’s nervous but he feels that that is to be expected. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, his reflection hidden from view as he fights against his heart beating against his rib cage. He doesn’t feel strong enough; he watches his fathers move into the room effortlessly, both clad in sharp suits, their guns holstered around their thighs, a numerous number of other weapons concealed on their person. His father steps forward, his eyes are dark and shiny as he glances over his son with a judging eye.    
  
“I’m proud of you,” He says carefully, his hands moving to carefully clasp at Pascal’s shoulders.  
  
Neither of his fathers are big on affection, Pascal has never heard “I love you,” pass their lips once. Maybe love is a weakness, he thinks, as he nods, setting his jaw.  
  
“Don’t fuck it up,” His father continues, his eyes are black with emotion, he presses a gun into Pascal’s hands.    
  


* * *

  
  
Pascal first kills a man on his day of his eighteenth birthday. He remembers the light in the dark green eyes - so much like his papa’s - slowly die out as the bloodied fingers clasp Pascal’s shaking hands and the man slumps to the floor. Pascal fights to take in gasps of air as he watches the man for a moment, the puddle of dark crimson blood spreading around him, as though to crown his body. The gun falls from Pascal’s hands as he leans down, fighting the nausea that is threatening to spill over. He feels sick to his stomach - he’s a murderer - he thinks, he can never go back to the way things were. He can never go to university, he can never lead a normal life. He hears footsteps and his breathing quickens as they pause. His papa stands before him, his blonde hair glinting in the dim lights.    
  
“Pascal,” His papa says, his dark green eyes emotionless. “Get up,”    
  
Pascal stares back at him, numb. The blood is drying on his hands.    
  
“Pascal,” His papa repeats, his voice harsh as it echoes off the walls of the warehouse. “We have to go, take the gun, Webber will be waiting if we don’t,”   
  
Pascal nods once as he pockets the gun. His papa deals with the body, his eyes still lacking emotion as he works through the mechanics of everything. Pascal wants to cry but he knows he can’t, he can’t be seen to be weak, to be nothing - he holds his tears in, bites his lip until the wash gush of metallic blood fills his mouth. His papa says nothing as he runs out of the warehouse, stands at the door, filling his lungs with smoky air, the sting of tears hits his eyes and the lights around him seem to blur. He doesn’t remember much after that - he remembers staggering down the road in his suit - remembers getting into a club, remembers the bass rattling through the air, people dancing around him, the smell of alcohol and a pair of brown eyes.    
  
“Are you alright?” The man says - he’s young, about Pascal’s age - his skin is dark, his hair is dark and his eyes are dark - he gives Pascal a warm smile, his hand curves over Pascal’s shoulder. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,”   
  
Pascal says nothing - say nothing to anyone, trust nobody, his father had always said - the brown eyed man guides him away from the pumping bass and presses a drink into his hand. Pascal looks down at the glass and back into the dark brown eyes.    
  
“It’s just water,” The man insists. His eyes ghost over the splatter of blood clinging to Pascal’s collar. “What happened to you?”   
  
“Nothing happened,” Pascal says defiantly. He can’t trust anyone, no matter how nice they seem - the man seems harmless, his SuperDry hoodie loose over his shoulders, his eyes full of worry, his hair on closer inspection looks soft and fluffy. “Just leave me alone,”   
  
“I can’t do that, I’m afraid, drink the water,” The man commands. Pascal opens his mouth to protest but as he does, he hears raised voices over the bass - hears his fathers names mentioned and freezes, his heart jumping in his chest as he hears the guns, hears the screams of people parting. The people are here for him, they know he’s here, they know he’s the son of Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg. A cold hand closes over his wrist and he glances up into the man’s eyes as he is tugged away through the crowds of people.    
  
“Hey, man, what are you-” He begins but the man shakes his head.    
  
“Don’t say anything, just follow me,” He says, his tone calm as he continues tugging Pascal through the crowd. Pascal moves with the man - knowing he probably shouldn’t trust the warm fingers on his wrist, not knowing where they’re heading - he eventually feels the cold air hit his face and glances around to find himself and the man in the alleyway at the back of the club - there’s no noises around them apart from the screams inside the club and the wail of a feral cat somewhere in the distance. The man tugs on his wrist again. “Come on, you have to trust me,”   
  
“I don’t even know who you are, I don’t know your name,” Pascal says, trying to tug his arm away.    
  
“Mitch,” The man says as he continues pulling on Pascal’s arm. “Just come on,”   
  
“How do I know you’re not going to lead me to them?” Pascal hisses back, his eyes narrowed as he stops, trying to snatch his hand away.    
  
“Look, I know this is stupid, I don’t know what you did, but judging by your panic, those guys are obviously looking for you,” The man - Mitch - says as he tugs on Pascal’s arm again. “We have to keep moving,”   
  
Pascal glances into Mitch’s eyes. He sees no hesitation there, brown meets brown. Mitch’s fingers close over Pascal’s again.    
  
“Thank you,” He says breathlessly when they finally stop. Mitch’s fingers are still warm against his skin. Pascal fights against every inch of himself, telling him to stay away from this man, but there’s something about Mitch’s eyes - something about the man that seems almost familiar.    
  
“You’re welcome,” Mitch says, smile curving over his lips.    
  


* * *

  
  
“Is everything going according to plan?” The smooth Australian voice echoes through the room, his suit barely making a noise, his footsteps soft and light.    
  
“Yes, father,” The younger man says, his brown eyes fixed on the Australian before him. “He took the bait, it was easy after that,”   
  
“Are you certain that he does not suspect anything? I was told that their son was highly trained-”   
  
The curve of a smile ghosts over lips. “You have been misled, father. Their son is nothing more than a confused, inexperienced teenager. He’s obviously been sheltered from their life,”   
  
A eyebrow raises. “This surprises me, you mean to tell me that he has no idea about his life?”   
  
“Oh, he has some idea, he’s just...not like them. Not exactly like them anyway,” The younger smiles.    
  
“You don’t know that for sure,” The Australian man says, his lips pursed.    
  
“Just trust me, father,” The younger says, his smile widening. “Everything will go to plan,”   
  
“I hope you’re right,” The other says. “Make me proud,”   
  


* * *

  
  
Pascal doesn’t tell his fathers about Mitch - he knows what they will say, nobody else can know about their secret, nobody else can become part of the family. He just tells his papa that he went out to catch his breath and grab a quick drink, his papa doesn’t question him. He goes to the shooting range later that evening, his thoughts thick and heavy as he carefully lifts his gun - still the gold plated one that he’s always used - the one which has killed a man. He bites his lip as the man’s face ghosts before his face again, his fingers shakes over the trigger. He steels himself, takes a deep breath and squeezes the trigger. The gun knocks back in his hand and he glances over at the target - the bullet has shredded straight through the paper over the heart.    
Pascal takes another shaky breath. His eyes land on the bullet hole, he tries not to think of Mitch’s smile but the man’s brown eyes move to the surface of his mind.   
  
His father finds him curled up on the sofa inside his office, his gun still clasped tightly in his hands, he doesn’t flinch as his father pulls a blanket over his slumbering form, a small smile ghosting over his lips.   
  


* * *

  
  
He meets Mitch again by chance - he’s out in some nightclub, some small job for his fathers, pretending that he’s there to join in with the celebrations. The club is packed, as expected on a Friday night, people eager to unleash themselves over the weekend. He’s dressed up in one of his suits, his gun smaller than usual, concealed under his jacket. He’s watching the crowd carefully when he feels a voice in his ear, an arm slides around his waist. Gritting his teeth, he prepares to give the man an earful, only to be met with familiar looking brown eyes.    
  
“Fancy seeing you here,” Mitch says, smiling.    
  
Pascal feels blush dance across his cheeks. “You shouldn’t be here,”   
  
“Why not? I love a good party,” Mitch says, his smile is wide.    
  
“Mitch, you can’t be here,” Pascal whispers. His eyes move towards the crowd - he hopes that one of his fathers’ men doesn’t see him, or that they just chalk it up to someone just being friendly. Pascal is aware of his fate - he’s never going to date, he’s never going to get to lead a normal life with someone like Mitch - he’s heard rumours that he will marry into the Bratva. He tries not to think about it, tries not to think about having no freedom, about being in charge of his fathers legacies. It terrifies him, knowing that his whole life is mapped out in front of him and he has no control over it. Mitch’s hands are warm against his skin and Pascal knows that he should push the other man away - he should just tell him that he isn’t going to happen - but there’s something in Mitch’s eyes, some degree of familiarity.    
  
“Why can’t I be here?” Mitch says, smiling. “Free party isn’t it?”   
  
“It’s not safe here,” Pascal says quietly, worrying his lip. “You should go, I don’t want to see you hurt,”   
  
“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?” Mitch says, changing the subject with a lewd smile.    
  
“Mitch, stop it,” Pascal hisses, trying to move away from the brown eyed boy. “You have to go,”   
  
“I’ll leave if you tell me your name,” Mitch says, smiling. “Since obviously you must be James Bond or something, since that is a gun and not a boner in your pocket,”   
  
Pascal feels the blush spread over his cheeks. “Pascal,”   
  
“Pascal,” His name rolls easily from Mitch’s tongue. “You don’t sound French,”   
  
“I’m not,” Pascal says shortly, his fingers glossing over his gun. “You have to go,”    
  
“Okay sweetheart,” Mitch says, winking. “I’ll see you soon,” He disappears as quickly as he appeared, sinking into the busy crowd. Pascal feels the warmth ghost over his fingers long after Mitch is gone.    
  


* * *

  
  
“I heard that you have become friends with a boy outside the circle,” His papa says, his green eyes dark and emotionless. They’re at the shooting range once more, his papa aims the gun perfectly, his hands steady as he pulls the trigger. The bullet rips straight through the forehead of the dummy and his papa lowers the gun, his eyes falling on Pascal.    
  
“It’s nothing, papa, he was nobody,” Pascal says, his voice unwavering.    
  
“That’s good to hear. Your father is in the process of finding you a husband and we don’t want to see all that hard work go to waste,” His papa says, his eyes burning into Pascal.    
  
“It won’t, I can assure you,” Pascal says, not thinking about Mitch’s eyes, the warmth of his fingers. He knows it’s only a matter of time before his fathers announce his betrothal to some man inside the circle that he doesn’t even love and can’t see himself growing to love. He knows they’re waiting for his eighteenth birthday. They’ll marry him off to some triad member or some guy from the Bratva and he’ll be trained up ready to take his fathers’ places when he’s older or when they’re inevitably killed.    
  
“Good,” His papa says evenly.    
  
“Papa?” Pascal says after a moment of silence. “Were you and father intended for each other?”   
  
There’s a moment of hesitation. “Of course we were, our parents had decided that we were to be married since we were ten years old, you have gotten away with it lightly so far,”   
  
Pascal doesn’t say anything, there’s nothing to say. There’s nothing he can do to stop it from happening, his father is probably going through the motions and the last few parts of the contract with Pascal’s future husband. For the first time, Pascal feels lost.    
  


* * *

  
  
His eighteenth birthday finally arrives with little fanfare - it’s as though everybody knows what is about to happen. Pascal is told to dress in a particular suit and stands in front of the mirror looking at himself with critical eyes. He can feel the rest of his life slipping away - he knows today is the day that he will meet the man who will become his husband one day. He smooths down the lapels of his suit as his father calls him into the lounge.    
He takes a deep breath, easing down the nausea as he finally meets eyes with his future husband - pale skin, full lips, acne - he’s not much older than Pascal himself.    
  
“Pascal,” His father says. “This is your intended,”    
  
The man’s hazel-green eyes lock on him. “Daniil Kvyat, captain of the Bratva,” He says. Pascal smiles, taking the hand offered to him. He figured that he would be married off to one of the other divisions to keep the peace - but standing before Daniil, the realisation hits him. This man - Daniil - was to be his husband.    
  
“Introduce yourself, son,” His father says, his voice a little harsh.    
  
“Pascal,” He says, his voice wavering slightly. Daniil licks his lips and nods, a small smile painting his lips. “It’s nice to meet you finally,”   
  
Pascal hates the awkwardness, he bites his lip, wondering if this marriage was to last - it would have to, it was one of convenience and politics.    
  


* * *

  
  
“Wehrlein is betrothed to the Bratva Captain Kvyat,” A voice sounds out, he looks uncomfortable.    
  
“Really? We must move quicker than expected then,” The Australian voice pipes up, a smile ghosting across his face. “Fetch my son,”   
  
The man nods and disappears for a moment. The Australian man leans back in his chair and glances over the photos of Daniil Kvyat entering Hamilton and Rosberg’s residence. He wanted to wait, wanted to take things slower but Hamilton had forced his hand by making his intentions clear that Kvyat was to marry his son within a few months of his eighteenth birthday. His fingers curl over the photographs as he hears footsteps, his son standing before him.    
  
“Father,”   
  
“Son,” The Australian man says. “We have a bit of a problem,”   
  
The younger boy doesn’t respond at first. “What sort of a problem?”   
  
“Pascal Wehrlein is engaged to be married,”    
  
The younger boy falls silent. “We must move quickly,” The older man continues. “Hamilton is already pressing for a quick wedding. Once he is wed, there’s no way back-”   
  
“Consider it done, father,”   
  
“Oh and Mitchell? Please be careful,” His father says, smiling as his son turns and leaves his office.    
  


* * *

  
  
It’s the night of his engagement party. Pascal watches the people mill about in his father’s house in sparkly cocktail dresses and sleek tuxes and hates everyone of them. He tips his champagne glass back, allowing the fizzy sharp liquid to dance over his tongue. His eyes ghost across the room to where his fiance - the word sounds dirty to him even now, a fiance of all things - is standing in the centre of the room, clad in a crimson coat. Pascal wonders how many people he’s killed, how many more he will kill before he slides into bed next to Pascal, curls around him. He downs another glass of champagne, welcoming the numbness washing over him.    
  
He hates everything - he hates his fathers both floating around in stunning tuxes with wide smiles, he hates Daniil, his coat the colour of blood, he hates everyone telling him how happy he will be with Daniil when all he wants to do is scream.    
  
“Pascal,” A familiar voice pops up behind him, Daniil stands there, worrying his lip. “You looked like you were deep in thought,” His English is slightly creaky.    
  
“I was, I was just thinking about everything, how happy we will be together,” Pascal says, swirling the remains of the champagne in his glass.    
  
Daniil laughs a little. “You don’t have to lie to me,  Дорогая моя, I know that you’re not happy about this arrangement, I wasn’t expecting you to be,”   
  
“You weren’t?” Pascal says with wide eyes. “You’re not angry at me?”   
  
Daniil smiles. “Of course not, I was once like you. I had an older brother, he was supposed to be the leader of the Bratva, but things changed. Before I knew it, I had to be the one who gave up everything. There was a boy, I love him dearly, but I had to break it off with him, he wasn’t Bratva, it wasn’t fair,”   
  
Pascal notices the tense - still in the present. “I’m sorry,”   
  
“It’s okay, I was angry about it, but it’s part of my obligation,” Daniil says, glancing over the crowd. “Have you ever been in love, Pascal?”   
  
Pascal thinks of Mitch for a fleeting moment before he shakes his head. “Never, didn’t really get an opportunity to,”   
  
“I’m sorry,” Daniil says and he sounds like he means it. He’s called away by some other Bratva guy, some urgent business. Pascal moves back into the shadows of the party, still drinking heavily.    
  


* * *

  
  
He’s drunk - he knows he’s drunk. The numbness rubs itself all over his body, seeps into his bones, he stops drinking after a while - it does nothing to stop the panic dancing over his chest. He wonders if Daniil will take him away to his room, if he’ll insist that they fuck before their wedding. He’s never had any close contact with anyone before - he’s never even had a kiss before, his parents saw to that. He thinks about kissing Daniil as he moves through the smiling crowd - he wonders if the Russian’s lips are soft, if he’d be gentle with Pascal - however, Daniil melts away before Pascal’s eyes - his skin darkens, his hazel-green eyes melt away into brown and Pascal lets out a deep breath as he finds himself outside the building, taking in large gulps of air.    
  
He feels the tears come to his eyes and begins walking away from the music - he knows he shouldn’t, it’s dangerous without an escort or some sort of bodyguard - but he can’t bring himself to care. He bites his lip as he continues walking through the streets - they’re abandoned at this time. He doesn’t realise that there’s a black BMW following him through the streets, its lights switched off as to not draw attention. His footsteps continue over the asphalt as he thinks about marrying Daniil - it won’t be long, a few months of unmarried life at most.    
He suddenly becomes aware of the sound of the car behind him, a set of single footsteps. He quickens his pace slightly, the numbness falling away slightly. He hears the footsteps too pick up speed and curses himself for being so stupid - how could he do this? Leave the safety of the party without anyone with him? He feels around his suit for his gun - but he knows it’s not there, he didn’t think he needed it, not in his parent’s house. He continues to pick up speed - his footsteps echoing down the street as he runs, faster, faster - hoping that he can get away. He thinks about his fathers, about how angry they will be if he is caught, he thinks about Daniil, wondering if the Russian is waiting for him back at the party.    
  
Suddenly, a warm hand curves around his wrist. It feels familiar. He gazes up into warm brown eyes, fighting to draw in air. He fights against the hand, snarling against the hold - he’s a Hamilton-Rosberg after all, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.    
  
“Pascal, stop!” Mitch’s voice is barely a wild whisper, his eyes flash dark and his fingers tighten around the other’s wrist. “Stop struggling!”   
  
“Let go of me!” Pascal hisses. “I’m going to get caught and it’s going to be your fault! I have to go!”   
  
“Just calm down,” Mitch says quietly. “Just calm down and come with me,” He says, his hand still clamped around Pascal’s. “They’re following you, just shut up and follow me,”   
  
“Why should I trust you?” Pascal asks, his eyes wide as he stops for a moment.    
  
“You shouldn’t,” Mitch says as he tugs on Pascal’s wrist for me to keep moving. “You shouldn’t trust anyone, I’m not asking you to trust me, I’m asking you to follow me,”   
  
Pascal finds he has no argument to fight back with as he follows Mitch through the dark alleyways, away from the cars. They continue running through the streets - through the back gardens, through the alleys, Mitch’s fingers still curled around Pascal’s.    
  


* * *

  
  
Pascal is so deep in thought, his fingers curled around Mitch’s, that he doesn’t realise that they’re no longer on the street but in a warm, well-lit apartment. Mitch finally lets go of Pascal’s hand and steps into the room, drawing on the curtains.    
  
“This is your apartment?” Pascal asks, glancing around - it’s neat and tidy, there’s barely any personal effects - a sleek black leather couch and a flatscreen television is mounted on the wall.    
  
“Yes, I figured it would be the safest place for you,” Mitch says, moving to check the door.    
  
“You have no idea, Mitch,” Pascal says quietly. “The people I work for, the people chasing me, they’re dangerous,”   
  
“I love a challenge,” Mitch smirks.    
  
Pascal moves forward, grasping Mitch by the shoulders. “You’re not being serious, they will hurt you, Mitch, there’s so much you don’t know about me,”   
  
“And there’s things that you don’t know about me, Pascal,” Mitch whispers back, his eyes locked on Pascal. “We’re fine here, we’re not in any danger,”   
  
“You can’t be certain of that,” Pascal says quietly.    
  
“What are you afraid of?” Mitch whispers, cocking his head slightly. “You’re afraid of something else, something else you’re running away from,” He moves closer, his eyes never leaving Pascal’s. “What is it, Pascal?”   
  
“That’s none of your business,” Pascal begins but he’s interrupted by Mitch’s lips sliding over his own. The words die away at the sensation of Mitch’s lips clinging to his own - they’re soft, slightly chapped, his fingers close over Pascal’s shirt as their lips pull together. Pascal feels the warmth curl in his thigh, the moan escapes from the corner of his mouth. Mitch feels right - he feels soft, warm, his skin is slightly sweaty - his hand curves over Pascal’s back, drawing him closer. Pascal whines against Mitch’s mouth as their bodies draw together - Pascal’s thoughts turn to his parents, to Daniil and he rips his mouth away, panting heavily.    
  
“I can’t, I’ve never-” Pascal pants out.    
  
“Stop being afraid, Pascal,” Mitch says, his eyes dark with desire. “It’s okay, I understand-”   
  
Pascal glances at Mitch, his pupils are blown, his lips are swollen. “I, I-” He thinks about Daniil in that moment, thinks about how he’s getting married in a few months, he thinks about his parents, wonders if they were truly betrothed, if they were intended or whether they met each other by chance. Mitch looks to him with such tenderness, his fingers are still soft against his t-shirt.    
  
“It’s okay, Pascal,” Mitch whispers. “It’s okay if you want to-” However, Pascal moves in again, pushing his lips against Mitch’s, Mitch’s hands closing around his waist. Mitch moans into the kiss, his hands tightening on Pascal’s shirt, his tongue slips out to brush over Pascal’s lips. Pascal opens his mouth, Mitch’s tongue brushes against his mouth. Pascal’s hand moves to fist into Mitch’s thick dark hair, their tongues dance against each other, heat curling in their thighs.    
  
“I don’t want to, fuck- I don’t want to have sex,” Pascal whispers, parting his swollen lips.    
  
“Okay,” Mitch whispers back before pressing their lips together.    
  
Pascal thinks of nothing else in that moment apart from how good Mitch makes him feel. He forgets that he’s the son of two mafia members, forgets he is heir to their thrones, forgets about Daniil, forgets about the marriage he’s got to undertake. He thinks of nothing but Mitch.    
  


* * *

  
  
Pascal wakes up in the morning in Mitch’s bed - he’s still dressed in his white shirt from the night before, Mitch sleeps soundly at the side of him - still wrapped up in the sheets. They had spent the night peppering slow kisses over each other’s bodies, Mitch was true to his word - Pascal wonders if he made the right decision, spending the night at Mitch’s apartment. He wonders how angry his fathers will be but he feels a rush of something at his rebellion. His eyes move over to where Mitch is still slumbering, he looks peaceful in his sleep, his tanned skin a beautiful contrast to the white Egyptian cotton sheets.    
  
Pascal pulls himself out of the sheets, padding through the flat and glancing at the beautiful pictures on the wall. The apartment is light and airy in the early morning light, Pascal finds his way back into the lounge and pauses at one of the bookshelves. There’s a photo of Mitch with another man, his arm wrapped around him. Pascal drops the photo frame - the man in the photo with Mitch is Webber, Mark Webber - the man who wants to destroy his parents, wants to destroy his legacy. Mitch knows Webber. Pascal feels the tears come to his eyes as he hurriedly buttons up his shirt. He was stupid to trust Mitch - to even let him in - stupid, stupid, stupid to think that Mitch was any different.    
  
“Leaving so soon?” A voice sounds out from behind him. He stiffens, his shirt still half buttoned. Webber stands before him - a gun held between his long fingers. “When my son said that he’d bumped into the heir of the Hamilton-Rosberg empire, I thought it was too good to be true,” He laughs, his voice even.    
  
“Fuck you,” Pascal whispers with venom, his eyes still burning.    
  
“Actually, I believe that you’re the one who has been fucked, Pascal,” Mark smiles, his eyes glinting. “You’re so different than I expected, I knew that you had not been exposed to the true life, the life you were meant to lead,”   
  
Pascal glances at the gun in his hand. He’s ready for this - he knows he’s going to die. He hopes it’s quick, that he doesn’t suffer too much. Mark levels the gun at Pascal’s chest, right over his heart. “I wonder what Lewis and Nico would say if they saw me with my gun pointed at their son, how quickly I will end their empire,”   
  
Pascal hears a rustle from the bedroom. He opens his mouth to say Mitch’s name but he’s met with wide shocked brown eyes that flicker between him and Webber.    
  
“Oh, son, I was hoping that you’d wake up just in time for this moment,” Webber says, smiling widely. Pascal grits his teeth - Mitch is Webber’s son - nothing had ever existed between him, it was all a facade. He feels his chest turn to ice as he glances into Mitch’s eyes - the eyes of a liar, of a man who Pascal thought cared about him, thought noticed him. Mitch says nothing, his eyes betray no emotion. Mark smiles, his eyes burning into Pascal.    
  
“Goodbye, Pascal Wehrlein, it was nice knowing you,” He says as he pulls the trigger.    
  
The last thing Pascal sees before the pain explodes across his chest are Mitch’s brown eyes before the darkness pulls him under. And the Hamilton-Rosberg empire falls not with a bang, but with a whimper as Mitch watches his body crumple to the floor, crimson staining the floor.    
  
Life is tough, love is tougher. 

**Author's Note:**

> Дорогая моя - my darling


End file.
